


Games

by tastewithouttalent



Category: No Game No Life - Kamiya Yuu
Genre: Cameras, Exhibitionism, F/M, Groping, Hand & Finger Kink, Light Dom/sub, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/F/M, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Alright,' Shiro says, and looks up from over the screen of her camera viewfinder to meet Steph’s wide blue eyes. 'Take your clothes off, Steph.'" Shiro takes the lead in directing Sora and Steph together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluenarcbird](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bluenarcbird).



Shiro makes them wait until she’s settled.

It’s important to make sure she has the right angle. Steph might be flushed with embarrassment and Sora might be jittery with impatience but there’s no rushing art, after all, and while she will make sure she has a chance at this again there’s no point in wasting a perfectly good opportunity. So she takes her time, clearing the snacks to one side of the table and perching herself on the edge of it, and it’s only once she’s comfortably arranged and has her phone open and camera on that she gives them permission to continue.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and looks up from over the screen of her camera viewfinder to meet Steph’s wide blue eyes. “Take your clothes off, Steph.”

Steph goes crimson. That’s only to be expected. Shiro angles her phone up and waits for the view to steady to clarity. “ _What_?” Steph gasps, one hand lifting up involuntarily towards the soft curve of her breasts barely covered by the lace-edged silk Shiro and Sora chose for her to wear this morning. “I can’t...just like that? What about--”

“Yes,” Shiro says. The camera steadies. Steph’s mouth is barely open; her lips are parted on soft confusion. Shiro presses the _capture_ button and the camera flashes the image into permanence while Steph is still blinking startled light from her vision. “Just like that. Get started.”

“I could always help,” Sora suggests, looking to Shiro to gauge her reaction instead of Steph’s. “If she needs persuading.”

Shiro lifts a hand to reject this idea. “No,” she says without looking away from the camera or raising her voice. Steph is looking to Sora, now, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her fingers clutching against the top edge of the cloth covering her chest. Her cheeks are flushed darker than her hair, her eyes wide and bright with panic; but her mouth is still soft, her lip trembling where she has the weight of her teeth pressed against it. Shiro leans in to brace her elbow against her knee and hold the camera steadier. “Steph’s going to do it.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Steph says, looking back to Shiro, but the protective angle of her arm is going slack, her fingers are catching against her skin more like a caress than defense. Her gaze flickers sideways to Sora standing next to her; her lips part over the rush of her breathing. Shiro doesn’t think Steph realizes the way her fingertips slide inside the top edge of what is currently passing as a shirt any more than she realizes that all her skin is going pink with a flush of heat more than of embarrassment. Shiro thinks it might rise enough in color to match the other girl’s hair, given a few minutes.

Steph takes a breath, her forehead creasing as she considers Sora. “I mean, if you tell me to I guess I have to.”

“I’m telling you to,” Shiro says immediately. It’s ridiculous to make the order explicit when it was already clear from context, and the more so when she can see Steph’s breathing coming faster just at the thought of it; but Steph needs an order as if she’s awaiting permission beyond Shiro’s gaze and Sora’s interest, and Shiro might find it objectively pointless but Steph, at least, seems to find some comfort in the excuse. “Strip.”

Steph’s cheeks darken, her gaze drops. Shiro can see the inhale she takes, can see the motion of the action work across the other girl’s shoulders; and then she sighs, and lets her head fall forward, and catches her fingertips under the laces holding her top on. Sora takes a breath, anticipation loud enough in his throat for Shiro to hear clearly, but Shiro doesn’t look at him; she’s watching her camera instead, tracking the strain clinging to Steph’s wrist and the angle of her shoulder as she pulls against her clothes. The fabric catches against skin, holding itself in place for a moment; and then gives way, sliding across soft curves to fall loose around Steph’s waist and catch at her hips. Sora groans, a faint sound of appreciation, and Shiro taps the button of her phone again, setting off another flash of light to illuminate the curve of Steph’s breasts and the dark flush spreading around her taut nipples.

“ _Ah_ ,” Steph whimpers, lifting a hand in a desperate and completely futile attempt to cover herself. “What--you can’t take _pictures_.”

“Keep going,” Shiro says without looking up from her phone. Steph’s fingers tighten against the soft of one breast; Shiro tips her head as she considers the weight of pressure digging into soft skin. “Or I’ll keep you naked for days.”

“Oh god,” Steph moans, and hunches her shoulders forward as she reaches to slide her fingers under her clothes again. She pushes the top down off her hips first, stepping clear of it so she can move it aside; Shiro can see her hesitate for a moment, uncertain what to do, before Shiro lifts her free hand and points towards the corner of the room. Steph tosses the fabric as indicated, the motion so shaky the clothing hardly makes it a foot before it falls, but she’s not watching the arc; she’s looking back down instead, apparently prioritizing speed over nervousness now in obeying Shiro’s order. There’s no chance for a photograph this time; Steph is straightening almost as quickly as Shiro’s camera comes into focus, throwing the bright color of her panties to follow her top while her entire face glows scarlet with self-consciousness.

“Good,” Shiro murmurs, before Steph has the chance to form anything like a question. Steph’s head lifts, the other girl’s gaze rising reflexively to meet Shiro’s, and Shiro takes another picture, more for the blush suffusing Steph’s face and spilling down her shoulders than for anything else. “Your turn, nii.”

Sora huffs an exhale, the sound loud enough that it all but echoes off the walls. “Of course,” is what he says, his agreement coming as easily as Shiro knew it would. There’s no need for orders when they understand each other as well as they do; Sora was moving as fast as Shiro glanced at him, stripping his shirt up over his head in one movement so quick his hands don’t have a chance to betray him with a nervous tremor. Shiro doesn’t think they would in any case; Sora is always steady under pressure, regardless of how much verbal protest he might offer, and he was never going to push back against her request for this. That’s Steph’s job, and even then it’s only a show; when Shiro looks back to the other girl the focus behind those wide blue eyes makes that more than clear. Shiro rather thinks Steph has forgotten she has an audience at all, maybe has even forgotten how much of her bare skin has been left on display; her protective arm is sliding down, at least, her desperate hold against herself easing until her fingers are trailing across her skin more like a foretaste of the contact to come than in any kind of defense from Sora’s gaze or Shiro’s camera.

Shiro takes another picture. Steph only jerks after the flash has broken into a wave across her skin; her attention jumps up and away from where Sora is unfastening his belt, her eyes going wide and bright as she stares at Shiro like she’s only just remembered the other girl is there.

“Pay attention,” Shiro whispers to the image of Steph’s eyes in the screen of her phone, and takes another picture, just for the way the flash makes Steph cringe and blink hard to clear her vision of spots of light. “Not to me.” Shiro swings her phone sideways, marking out an arc to connect Steph’s focus and Sora’s movement; he comes into view on the screen just as he pushes the weight of his jeans off his hips. His boxers are bright purple, layered over with a design in shades of yellow and orange enough to make the viewer’s eyes water, but Shiro doesn’t blink, just lets the angle of her phone camera pan down to focus on the pronounced strain at the front of the fabric.

Sora’s thumbs slide down over his hips and catch under the elastic of his boxers before hesitating. “Shiro,” he asks, and when Shiro looks up from the screen of her phone Sora’s watching her, his eyes fixed on her features and his cheeks only barely flushed with the pink of anticipation. “Like this, or…?” His arms shift, his wrists angling to press the sharp edge of bone close under skin; it’s a suggestion even before the force urges his boxers down fractionally to underline the possibility.

“No,” Shiro tells him, and looks back down to her phone as she brings it back into focus on Steph, who’s standing as if petrified and staring at the front of Sora’s boxers with something a little bit panic and mostly intense interest across her face. Shiro thinks about taking another picture. “Patience is a virtue, nii.”

“Patience _sucks_ ,” Sora groans. “I’m a healthy young man, you know, how much patience can I be expected to have with this much temptation in front of me?” His hands lift into the air to gesture vaguely towards the curves of Steph’s body; but his gaze is still on Shiro, his mouth still quirking on a grin like a secret shared between them.

“Pay attention,” Shiro tells him without any anger under the soft of her tone. “You’ll have to be patient to win this game.”

“ _Game_ ,” Steph yelps, sounding vaguely outraged and mostly embarrassed. “I’m not...you’re not...I’m not a game!”

“Yes you are,” Shiro and Sora say in perfect stereo.

“That’s all anything is,” Sora tells her.

“It’s the most interesting thing to be,” Shiro finishes the thought.

“But.” Steph looks from one of them to the other, her forehead creasing with incoherent protest from a source too emotional to be reasoned with. Shiro thinks about sighing but doesn’t bother with the trouble of voicing the reaction. “But I’m a person, you can’t just play with a person like that.”

“We can.” Shiro, this time, leaving it to Sora to finish: “We play with ourselves like that too. There’s no game we can’t win.”

“None.” Shiro leans forward over her knees, bracing her elbows against the bottom hem of her skirt so she can steady the camera in her hands. “Nii. It’s time for the first move.”

“Yes,” Sora agrees, and he’s moving forward while Steph is still blinking confusion, while her lips are still parting over the _what?_ Shiro doesn’t need to hear to predict. Steph is easy to anticipate, after all; she doesn’t even need to direct Sora for him to know what to do to stall the pointless question at the other girl’s mouth.

Shiro likes watching kissing. There’s something fascinating to the movement seen from the little distance she’s at: still close enough to pick out the flush that rises instantly across Steph’s cheeks and to watch the dazed way her lashes dip heavy to flutter closed over her eyes, but far enough to watch the way Sora’s mouth fits against Steph’s instead of having her vision distorted by the too-close proximity they have to each other at the moment. It’s interesting to see the way Sora’s hands land, to see the one that braces easy at Steph’s shoulder while the other hovers, tentative and unsure like feathers caught in a breeze, just at the girl’s hip. For her part Steph’s hands are up, her palms raised in an expression of some incoherent surrender for a long, strained moment; and then her lashes flutter shut entirely, and she makes a sound almost completely lost to the press of Sora’s mouth on hers, and when her hands come down it’s to alight at Sora’s shoulders, to press her fingertips in close against the indoor-pale of Sora’s skin. Steph’s spine eases, her back curving to arch her closer, and Shiro watches Sora’s fingers tighten against Steph’s hip as the girl presses herself in closer against him, as the angle of one soft arm loops around his neck to brace them together. It’s all instinctive, as far as Shiro can see: Sora doesn’t have enough experience for this kind of fluidity, and Steph’s flush seems to indicate she’s a novice herself, but there’s something inherently graceful about the way Steph curves herself against Sora’s chest, and even to the way Sora’s half-step forward braces him the closer against Steph’s body. Steph’s hand slides up over the back of Sora’s neck, her fingers dip and weight into his hair, and when Shiro presses the _capture_ button neither of them react, the brief flash of illumination lost to the joint distraction of shut eyes and wandering hands.

Shiro lets them continue for a while. It’s nice to see how far they’ll go uninstructed, how smoothly Sora’s hand slides from Steph’s waist down over the curve of her hip, barely hesitating against her thigh for a moment before sliding around to press against the curve of her ass. And Steph is quick to react, as instantly responsive to Sora’s touch as she is to either of their commands; her lips slide free of Sora’s for a moment, she whimpers into a throaty moan that Shiro can feel purr electricity all the way down her spine, and as Sora’s fingers tighten it’s Shiro whose breathing comes faster, who has to shift her position against her perch into a slightly more comfortable angle. The wood under her feels far warmer than it did originally, as if it’s collecting the radiance of heat she can see glowing off Steph’s skin to flush her as rose-pink as her hair; Shiro takes another picture, tipping the phone and letting the focus go blurry to produce something artistically vague with the same heat catching Steph’s breathing faster. When Sora takes a half-step forward it’s to fit his knee between Steph’s, to angle his leg close against the other girl, and Steph responds to that as immediately, her whole body pressing flush to Sora’s so she can grind herself against the resistance. There’s a grace to the movement, a reflexive fluidity as if it’s instinct wholly guiding Steph’s actions and not the overcomplicated considerations of society and appearance that so often fight for control over her; Shiro likes to see it, the same way she sometimes likes to look up in the middle of a game of chess to see the way Sora looks when he’s utterly lost to his surroundings, when the whole of his awareness has narrowed to just the immediate problem in front of him.

“The bed,” Shiro murmurs to the camera of her phone, shifting the angle in expectation of movement. She’s not speaking loudly, and Steph is too distracted to pay attention; but Sora is listening, as Sora is always listening, and he moves with the ease of someone echoing Shiro’s desires in himself rather than being pushed into obeying them. His hands drop to Steph’s hips, his fingers catch and brace against the girl’s skin, and when he urges her back it’s with deliberate care, slowly enough that Shiro thinks Steph might not even realize what’s going on for the first few steps. She certainly seems distracted enough as Sora walks her back across the floor; and then her legs bump the edge of the bed, and she startles away to look behind her with her eyes still hazy with all the weight of heat Sora has pressed into her.

“Sit down,” Sora orders, or suggests, maybe; it’s hard to draw a line between the two when Steph responds so readily, when she’s dropping to sit hard against the sheets almost as soon as Sora speaks. There’s a moment where Shiro can catch the curve of flushed skin, can trace the warm weight of Steph’s breasts with her eyes; and then Sora reaches out, his fingers glancing against Steph’s shoulder, and Steph falls backwards as if she’s been shoved, her whole sense of balance entirely giving way to the momentary weight of Sora’s fingertips. The soft of the mattress catches the heat of her body, the light overhead illuminates the flush of her skin; Shiro takes another picture, quick, as Sora tips forward to rest his knees at the edge of the bed between Steph’s angled-open legs and reaches out to brace a hand against the sheets.

“I want to…” he starts, speaking low enough that Shiro thinks it’s intended for himself, and therefore more for her ears than for Steph’s. He looks down at Steph under him for a moment, his lashes dipping to shadow over his eyes; and then his head comes up, and he turns back to Shiro, and however flushed his skin may be there’s complete focus behind his gaze. “What next?”

Shiro’s skin goes warm, her spine prickling with weight like a shiver trying to slip under her skin, like a flush trying to steal away the cool distance of her composure. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flush, doesn’t raise her gaze from the screen of her phone; but she’s sure Sora can feel the presence of her unformed smile, is sure her pleasure in the offered control is clear in the faroff distance of the calm on her voice as she speaks. “Not what you’re thinking.”

Sora makes a show of his sigh, of his shoulders sagging with the weight of enforced patience. “I can’t wait forever, Shiro, you know I’m a healthy young man--”

“With certain needs,” Shiro cuts him off. “Yes, nii, I know.” She tips her phone slightly to the side to let the camera come into angular focus on the rhythm of Steph breathing hard where she’s lying across the bed. Steph’s watching Sora again instead of Shiro; Shiro considers the angle of it, the soft inattention clinging to the other girl’s lips as she gazes unnoticed at Sora kneeling between her legs. Shiro wonders if Steph realizes how warm her expression is, if she realizes how accidentally sultry the flush on her cheeks and the part of her lips looks; if Shiro were close enough to touch her, she thinks she’d press her fingers against the soft give of the other girl’s lower lip, would trace her thumb across the damp of Steph’s mouth and maybe press in against the warm wet of her tongue to feel the heat of breathing against her skin.

“Nii,” she says, carefully so the soft of her voice carries clearly over the gap between her and the other two. “Touch Steph’s mouth.” Steph’s head turns, her attention sliding away from Sora to land on Shiro like she’s just remembered the other girl is there, but Shiro isn’t paying attention to her anymore; she’s looking to Sora, meeting the focus of his gaze from across the room. “With your fingers.”

Steph’s forehead creases. “What--” she starts, but then Sora’s fingers weight against her lips, his touch presses interruption into her speech, and she goes startled and silent, her eyes going wide with shocked attention as Sora presses against her mouth. Shiro zooms her camera view in closer so she can catch the dip of soft color under Sora’s fingertips, so she can track the way Steph’s lips catch and drag against Sora’s skin with the damp left behind from their kissing; it makes an almost abstract image from this close up, incomprehensible color for a moment before the visual steadies and clarifies into the give of skin to skin, the magnification so intense it makes even this simple action hum with the promise of pornography. Shiro takes another picture.

“Keep your hand there,” she says, retreating back to a more all-encompassing view of the angle of Steph’s legs on the bed, to the sharp line of Sora’s position as he leans in over the other girl. Sora slides his thumb out, bracing his touch against Steph’s chin to steady his touch in place, and he’s rocking back over his knees as if in anticipation for Shiro’s next command before she even voices it. “Bring your other up between her legs.”

Steph makes a faint sound, a high, whimpering note in the back of her throat that catches and muffles itself around the press of Sora’s fingers over her lips as her cheeks flush to sudden scarlet; but Shiro has already panned away from the other’s girl’s face and over the tangle of the sheets, and Steph’s tipping her legs open without being told, her thighs sliding apart into an unmistakable invitation even with the tremor of nervousness Shiro can see running through her body. Shiro can’t see much more than the warm flush spreading up the inside of Steph’s thighs and the shiver of reaction thrumming across the flat of her stomach; but Sora looks down, and his lashes dip into sudden weight, and Shiro can read everything she needs off the shadow of want that settles across Sora’s expression.

“Okay,” he says without lifting his gaze from Steph in front of him. “Whatever you say, Shiro.” He lifts his hand to touch against the inside of Steph’s knee; Shiro can see Steph’s whole body jerk with the sudden sensation as clearly as she can hear the whimper that follows in the other girl’s throat. Sora’s lashes shift, his throat works on a swallow; but his fingers are sliding up, and when he speaks his voice is fitting itself around the weight of deliberate calm. “I’m only following your orders here.”

“I know,” Shiro breathes, because she does. Her skin is glowing with secondhand heat as she watches Sora’s fingers trail up the inside of Steph’s thigh, as she watches the other girl’s legs slide wider still in reflexive invitation for more of Sora’s touch. “Keep touching her.”

“Right,” Sora says, agreement to a command he knew was coming, and as his fingers slide up Steph’s lashes flutter, her head tips back under the weight of Sora’s touch at her mouth. She makes a faint sound, distant heat in the back of her throat like a plea or encouragement, maybe, and her knee angles wider, slipping off the support of the bed and down to give Shiro a better view of what Sora is doing. It’s an involuntary act, Shiro is sure -- where Sora is acting at Shiro’s whim Steph is caught somewhere in the heat-haze of her own instinct -- but it’s still an opportunity, and it’s still enough to let Shiro watch as Sora’s fingers slide up to press against pink-flushed skin, as his touch drags over the heat between Steph’s thighs.

“Keep going,” Shiro tells him, even though the command is unnecessary; it’s more permission than instruction, more allowance for Sora to do what he’s doing already, which is turning his hand and shifting his fingers to slide his touch up to press inside the heat of Steph’s body. Steph makes a faint sound, her legs flexing in brief, involuntary reaction, and Sora moves without being told, sliding his fingers past Steph’s lips to weight against her tongue and press away the possibility of coherency. Steph’s fingers drag, her hand tenses against the sheets under her; but it’s a short action, as reflexive as the tension thrumming across her stomach, and she’s not showing any sign of protest even when Sora’s fingers dip farther into her mouth, even when the angle of his thumb braces against the side of her lips to hold his motion steady. Shiro can see the way Steph’s throat works over the action of swallowing, can see the rhythm of an overheated inhale catch in the other girl’s shoulders; but she doesn’t give verbal resistance any more than physical protest, and after a moment Shiro returns her attention to the slide of Sora’s fingers where he’s dipping one farther inside Steph without being told, like he’s exploring the heat of her body. Shiro can imagine how warm Steph must be, can guess how slick she must feel against Sora’s skin; she wonders how hard Sora is pushing, wonders how clearly Steph can feel his actions as he draws back to work in through a slow thrust.

“Harder,” Shiro says without thinking; and then, while Sora’s wrist is still twisting to a steadier angle: “And another finger,” speaking as Steph shudders through anticipation of the motion to come.

“ _Oh_ ,” Steph moans, the sound coming wide-open and strained around Sora’s fingers in her mouth, and: “ _Yes_ ,” Sora says, obedience turning enthusiastic on his lips as he slides into Steph with another finger. Shiro brings the camera into focus on Steph’s face, watches the way the other girl’s lashes shift as her eyes widen to startled blue; she takes another picture, captures the first flush of heat over Steph’s cheeks while both Steph and Sora are too distracted to notice the flash.

“Keep going,” Shiro murmurs, and “Faster,” because Steph is blinking herself back into composure and Shiro wants to watch that melt away, wants to see the movement of Sora’s fingers printed clear into heat across the other girl’s face. Sora’s hold at Steph’s mouth shifts, his fingers moving as if to brace himself in place for the action, and then he does move harder, and Steph’s eyes go wider, her fingers drag at the sheets, and Shiro has to shift her weight against the edge of the table again as she watches the curve of Steph’s spine tighten into an arch of involuntary reaction. Steph’s toes brace at the floor, her foot curves into a shudder of response, and Sora is moving faster in continued obedience to Shiro’s command, working the motion of his hand into a rhythm that Shiro can see thrum through the tension of Steph’s body as if the other girl is an instrument resonating in time with the drag of Sora’s fingers inside her. Steph’s shoulders are bracing against the bed, her hips are lifting fractionally higher from the strain in her legs and against the arch of her back, and Sora is still moving, his fingers sliding easy, now, like he’s found a rhythm for the action and can do it all unthinking.

“nii,” Shiro says from her perch against the table. She can feel her cheeks flushing warm with heat, as if the air in the room itself is catching alight from the glow of Steph’s skin and burning with the weight of sunlight on pale skin. “Is she wet?”

“Dripping,” Sora says, his voice coming clear over the embarrassed whimper that breaks free of Steph’s throat. The other girl shuts her eyes, her cheeks flaming to crimson, but Shiro doesn’t spare more than a glance for her; she’s looking to Sora instead, where he’s drawing his fingers back out of Steph and holding them up so Shiro can see the slick shine of damp clinging to them. “Do you think she’s ready yet?”

“Hm.” Shiro tips her phone sideways, angling it to catch the whole of Steph within the frame: the tremor of strain against her leg, the open angle of her far knee, the fist of her fingers against the sheets. Her breasts are quivering in time with her breathing, her nipples are drawn to taut heat like they’re straining for friction; Shiro shifts her foot, tucking it up under herself so she can steady her balance against the table before tapping to capture the image. “Yes, nii.”

Sora looks up at once, his eyes going wide as he looks to Shiro as if to confirm the meaning of her words. “Yes?” he repeats, like he’s asking for reiteration in spite of the fact that Shiro knows he understands her meaning. “Wait, so can I--”

“Yes.” Shiro tips her phone to the side and angles her head to match it so her hair falls heavy across her shoulder. “Don’t keep our Steph waiting, nii.”

He doesn’t. Shiro was teasing him, and she knows he knew that; but Sora still moves with speed so great it turns him clumsy and nearly sends him toppling off the edge of the bed in his haste to pull his hand back from Steph’s lips and strip his boxers off. He’s hard as soon as he gets the clothing off, his cock straining towards his stomach and flushed so dark it’s slick at the head; Shiro glances back to the damp shine against Sora’s fingers, thinks about the symmetry of bringing together Sora’s heat with Steph’s, about the satisfaction of the two meeting as they were meant to.

“Steph,” she says, louder than she has been speaking, almost at the volume of ordinary speech to collect the other girl’s scattered attention to her. Steph’s head turns at once, a motion more involuntary than otherwise; her eyes are unfocused, her lashes dragging hard in an attempt to reclaim clarity as she gazes at Shiro watching her.

“You want this,” Shiro says, and then, to undo the force the command would carry: “Right?”

Steph’s forehead creases, her lips catch against each other. There’s a suggestion of teeth pulling at the soft of her lower lip, a flicker of strain across her expression, and Shiro lifts a hand without looking away from the screen of her phone.

“Nii,” she whispers, “Wait” and she looks up, away from the clean glass of the screen and across the open space between her and the bed, between her and the focus of Steph’s blue eyes on her. Steph’s hair is tangled around her features, her lips visibly trembling against the restraint of her teeth; but there’s attention behind her eyes, focus enough for Shiro to trust.

“I’m going to tell Sora to do whatever he wants to you,” Shiro says, carefully enunciating each of the words so there’s no mistake. Steph’s lashes flutter, her lip slides free of her teeth, but she doesn’t say anything. Shiro considers the focus behind the other girl’s eyes, considers the heat flushing all the way down her collarbones and across the curve of her breasts, and when she speaks it’s with the absolute certainty that comes with the end of a chess match, when everything is too perfectly aligned to allow for human error. Still, there’s a certain measure of respect to be owed to a worthy competitor, a necessity of playing through the last steps until the opponent sees that they are indeed defeated, and so Shiro holds Steph’s gaze, and holds her voice level, and finishes the question she already knows the answer to. “Do you want us to stop?”

Shiro can see the hesitation across Steph’s face. It’s in the flicker of her lashes, and the motion in her throat, and the strain of her shoulders. It’s even in the way her fingers tighten on the sheets under her, the way her arm goes taut for a moment of strain. Shiro knows the answer to her question -- it’s hardly a question at all, with that color staining all Steph’s skin the color of unvoiced want -- but for a moment Steph doesn’t know the answer herself, Shiro can see the question of it flickering behind the bright of her eyes. But then Steph’s focus drops, her eyes sliding away from Shiro to fall on Sora still kneeling between her legs, and Shiro doesn’t look to follow Steph’s gaze but she doesn’t need to, not when she can see the effect of it clear over the other girl’s face. Steph’s forehead creases, her throat shifts; and then she shuts her eyes, and shakes her head, her hair tangling with the force of the motion even as her cheeks flush into scarlet embarrassment at her own capitulation.

“Okay,” Shiro murmurs, already looking back down to the angle of her camera and the shifting focus of the screen as she tips it sideways to change the view. “Tell me if you want to stop.” It’s a token comment -- Steph is no more likely to tell them to stop than Shiro is herself -- and Shiro’s attention is already shifting, focusing in on the strain across Sora’s shoulders and the tension in every line of his body as he waits for her permission.

“Alright,” Shiro says, and shifts her weight against the edge of the table to get more comfortable. “Do whatever you want to her, nii.” Sora takes a breath, lets it out in a rush of relief; and then he moves, leaning forward and reaching out at once. Shiro looks down to the screen of her phone, steadying her grip so the image comes into focus, and it’s in the view of the camera lens that she watches Sora’s fingers catch at Steph’s breast and watches the flex of the pressure bearing down against the soft of the other girl’s body. Steph shudders under the friction, her body arching up towards Sora’s, but Sora is leaning in over her before the curve of her spine pleads for the contact, his knees sliding wider over the sheets as he tips in closer to the open angle of Steph’s legs. Shiro glances at the tremor along Steph’s thigh, at the shift of her fingers on the sheets; and then Sora’s hips are dropping down low, the flushed dark of his cock is fitting between Steph’s open legs, and Steph is hissing an inhale and reaching up to grab at Sora’s shoulder at the same time Shiro’s heartbeat stutters over anticipation enough to steal the air from her lungs.

“Be gentle,” she says, the words coming gentle in spite of the pressure she can feel weighting against her chest, as if the air in the room has gone summer-storm humid and is protesting the loss of its oxygen to the pull of her lungs. Sora ducks his head into the outline of a nod, huffs something that sounds enough like assent to pass; but Shiro thinks his attention is elsewhere, anyway, somewhere in the flex of his fingers still pressing hard against Steph’s chest and the angle of his hips as he rocks himself forward. Steph’s head is tipped down, her eyes wide and blue and fixed on the way Sora is fitting against her, the way she’s tipping her hips up to meet him; and in the end it’s Steph Shiro is looking at, it’s the flutter of Steph’s eyelashes Shiro watches through the lens of her camera in the first slick slide of bodies coming together.

Sora’s the first to make a sound. It’s a low groan, hitting a deep resonance in his chest that Shiro has never heard from him before, in any context anywhere. It’s almost enough to bring her attention sideways to track the expression on his face; except that Steph is whimpering, her throat drawing tight on the faint sound until the motion is more clear than the noise, and her gaze is sliding up and away, drifting over the lines of the ceiling overhead like she’s entirely forgotten how to pull her attention in under her own control. Shiro can feel her own spine tense, can feel a shudder of electricity ground out into her veins like it’s being carried on the part of Steph’s lips and the note of shocked pleading in the other girl’s throat; and then Sora draws back, and thrusts forward deeper, and Shiro has to blink to clear her heat-hazed vision as Steph shudders, her whole body giving way to the force of her reaction to Sora’s movement. Her leg shifts, her foot coming up to press hard against the back of Sora’s thigh, and in the space between Shiro shutting her eyes to blink and opening them again the distinction between the others’ bodies flickers and fades entirely.

Shiro always likes watching Sora play games. There’s some heightened pleasure to be gained from watching someone else demonstrate their skill, even more so than if she is the one holding the controller; there’s more awareness of her surroundings, more attention she can spare for the act of observing rather than playing herself. It’s enjoyable to watch Sora play, pleasant to see the rhythmic grace layered under every move he takes, and this is no different; there’s something deep-down satisfying in the motion of Sora’s hips, in watching the way Steph’s legs tremble and flex in perfect, unstudied synchronization. Steph’s arms are caught around Sora’s neck, her breathing is coming hard enough to ruffle in the other’s hair; Shiro can’t see Sora’s face at all for the way he’s tipped down over Steph, but she can see the tension straining over his bare shoulders, and she can hear the focused rush of his breathing as he finds a pace for his movement. He has one hand bracing his weight against the bed, the other still digging in hard against Steph’s breast; Shiro can see his fingers flex out-of-time with his movement, can see the flicker of awareness telegraphed in his touch as he remembers what he’s doing aside from the distraction of the physical sensation he’s subsumed by. She recognizes that focus, the all-in attention that is always so jarring to emerge from, and so it’s not to Sora she speaks but to Steph, to the tension flexing against the other girl’s arms and the gasp of her breathing catching higher with every rocking thrust forward Sora takes.

“Steph,” Shiro mumurs. Steph’s lashes flutter, her lips part on a moan, but she doesn’t turn her head to acknowledge Shiro’s voice. Shiro lifts her phone to bring the camera into focus. “ _Steph_.” That does it, the edge on her voice enough to cut through whatever distracted sensation Steph is experiencing; Steph’s head turns, her eyes going wide and startled, and Shiro takes a picture, lets the flash of the light capture the surprise across Steph’s features and the heat clinging to her cheeks. “Touch yourself.”

“Wh--” Steph starts, and then cuts herself off, hissing in another groan as Sora’s fingers tighten on her, as her back arches through a surge of sensation Shiro can feel echo as electricity along her own spine. “What?”

“Touch yourself,” Shiro repeats, faintly louder, enunciating her words to pristine clarity so there can be no confusion in the other girl’s head. “You’re going to come before he does.”

“ _What_ ,” Steph says again, her cheeks coloring to crimson and her voice breaking on the height of incredulity; but then she blinks, her gaze slipping out-of-focus for a moment, and when her eyes come back to clarity Shiro can see understanding granting the blue of the other girl’s gaze form and weight it rarely has. There’s a shift of motion, a duck of Steph’s chin; and then: “Yes,” she says, implicit obedience made coherent and certain, and Shiro shudders with the awareness of that even before Steph’s fingers ease from the hold she has around Sora’s neck to slide down between their bodies. It’s hard for Shiro to see, beyond the tantalizing suggestion of motion glimpsed in the shadow between Steph’s hips and Sora’s; but she can see Steph’s face clearly, can see the weight of the other girl’s lashes dip and flutter as her mouth comes open with the first ripple of sensation. Shiro has to press her lips together on the sound that wants to threaten her throat, has to shift her position again to sit flat against the table instead of balanced over one foot, and in front of her Steph is shuddering, is trembling under the shadow of Sora’s body as her back curves into artistry against the soft of the bed under the two of them. Sora has turned his head sideways, enough to watch the press of his fingers as he works his hand against Steph’s breast, but Steph is shaking well before he closes his fingers on her nipple and tugs against the flushed dark of it. The added sensation strains harder in Steph’s throat, jumps her exhale to a higher range of a moan, and Shiro can feel her own shoulders tensing on anticipation, can feel her breathing sticking in her chest as she braces a hand at the table under her and leans forward as if in expectation of a rapidly-approaching victory. Steph’s head angles back, her shoulders curving off the sheets to make an offering of her body to Sora’s movement, to Shiro’s gaze, and when Sora gasps an inhale Shiro’s lungs work in time with his, all her skin flushing hot as if it’s her fingers drawing over Steph’s body to spike the other girl’s pleasure to unbearable heights. Steph’s lungs fill, her breathing stalls still for a moment; and then Sora thrusts forward, and Shiro’s thumb hits the _capture_ button, and the flash of the camera saturates the first shudder of Steph coming in one long, boneless tremor. Sora’s gasping, Steph is trembling, and Shiro is watching, her gaze documenting all the details that will inevitably be lost to Steph’s haze of pleasure or Sora’s distracted movement. The way Steph’s lips catch on each other as they part around her moan of pleasure, the way her shoulder flexes with the last deliberate drag of her fingers; the way Sora’s fingers tug against the other girl’s nipple, the way the friction makes Steph shudder and jolt with aftershocks of heat. The way Sora’s hair falls in front of his face, the way his sweat-slick shoulders hunch, the way his hand falls from Steph’s breast to clutch at the sheets instead; the way Sora rocks forward into his orgasm like a breaking wave, the way his whole body flexes at once before releasing into shuddering relief. Shiro’s chest aches, her lungs straining on an overfull draw of air past her lips; and then Sora groans, and she exhales, and the room goes quiet and still for the span of several heartbeats. Sora is still leaning over Steph, his shoulders still flexing with the effort of holding himself up; Steph is still gazing blank distraction at the ceiling, her cheeks flushed and lips parted on the heat of her breathing filling the air with humidity. Shiro shifts her balance back from the edge of the table and lifts the camera one last time; when she taps the button the room flares to white for a moment, the other two captured in the shuddering aftershocks of pleasure by the clean light of the lens.

“We should take a bath,” she says, bracing a hand against the edge of the table to steady herself as she slides forward and off the support. Steph blinks, visibly struggling to find her focus again; Sora actually manages to lift his head to look back at her, but Shiro is looking down already, tapping back from the camera feature on her phone to scroll through the image album just created. “Come with me.” And she heads towards the door without looking back, her attention pinned to the images in front of her rather than the heat-slick bodies still tangled together on the bed.

It takes a few minutes for the other two to get back to their feet. Steph insists on pulling on some minimal attempt at clothing again, and Sora has to try twice before he can trust his feet without clinging to the support of the wall. Shiro gives them as long as they want, perfectly content to wait by the door with the display of her phone to keep her company. She has a range of photos, now, all of them featuring flushed skin and parted lips and heavy lashes; Sora, and Steph, and the two of them together, pressed close like a single entity with no space for anyone else.

Someone else might be jealous, Shiro thinks, someone else might feel their own absence from the images she’s panning through. But when Sora’s hand lands on her shoulder to steer her towards the door, and Steph pulls the weight of the door open for them both, Shiro doesn’t feel anything of the sort.

After all, a photographer leaves her mark in the existence of every picture.


End file.
